


If Sinners Entice Thee

by sixfarthingsless



Series: Lay Wait For Blood [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixfarthingsless/pseuds/sixfarthingsless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Chief Inspector Merlin Emrys swore long ago that, no matter what happened, he would never bring him back into his life. However, when a series of gruesome murders begin to happen in Upper Torton, everything points towards a serial killing spree. Although asking Arthur to return to the force is the last thing Merlin wants to do, he finds himself with no other choice than turning to the man whom he had once called fiancé.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Sinners Entice Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Very graphic depictions of violence, death and decay. Probably on par with Hannibal. You've been warned! :)

“My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not” - Proverbs 1:10

“For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood” - Proverbs 1:16

***

  
**Chapter One: A Cessation of The Peccant**   


 

Gawaine Grant swaggered into the interrogation room with a hubristic smirk, taking a seat at the table, propping his feet up and putting his arms behind his head, raising a cocksure eyebrow. The perpetrator, Gilli Lowndes, folded his arms over his torso, throwing down the gauntlet with his brow.

Oh, he was guilty, Gawaine already knew, but the rest of the team were having a problem getting information out of him.

He just sat there, cross-armed, avoiding questions with a self-assured grin. Even Owain Fletcher couldn’t get anything, and Owain had the technique of going in, all guns blazing, until somebody finally broke and revealed everything. Only, what happened was, after half an hour, Lowndes just stared, amused, then cracked his neck; moments later, Owain left the interrogation room to take out his frustrations on some unsuspecting work experience boy, who’d be running around the city for nothing but Owain’s own humour.

Although, unlike Owain, Gawaine had the patience of a saint and the ability to get terrorist organisation plans out of a bourbon biscuit.  
Lowndes scratched his chin and refolded his arms, waiting for Gawaine to rise to the bait.

“Listen, princess, I’m not going to beat around the bush here, I know you’re guilty, they know you’re guilty, the whole world knows you’re guilty,” He drawled, his accent more pronounced than usual. “Say you don’t confess, say you don’t give us what we need,” Gawaine shrugged, putting his feet down and leaning over the table.

Lowndes gave no sign of listening other than watching Gawaine carefully. Gawaine continued, wanting to stand up walk around the room. “Just say you plan to carry out this nonchalant _I-don’t-give-a-damn_ act, you _will_ serve time for wasting police time, you do realise this, don’t you?”  
“You can’t serve time for not answering questions. I read it online,” Gilli snapped, eyes directly on Gawaine.

“Oh, so he does speak,” Gawaine answered, folding his arms again. He gave a roguish grin and flipped his hair, watching Gilli’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Well, if you had done your research, Mr Lowndes, you’d know that you cannot serve time for answering no comment under the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994. You, however, have chosen to answer nothing at all. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Gilli gave a shrug and wiped his nose with his index finger. Cocaine, Gawaine thought, looking him up and down. Lowndes was average looking, although he looked painfully thin. His hair was greasy and thinning and his fingers shook as if struggling with withdrawal symptoms. Gawaine didn’t know how he’d missed it before.

“And, of course, if you’d really done your research you’d see that, under the Criminal Law Act 1967, section five, you can be charged for wasting police time. It’s a criminal offence, Mr Lowndes,” Gawaine leaned back again, putting his feet up onto the table. He picked at grime that had somehow got underneath his fingernails while watching Gilli Lowndes through his eyelashes. Gilli fidgeted, sitting up in his seat and leaning forward. Gawaine held back the victorious laugh ready to burst from him.

“So, I’ll ask you again, Mr Lowndes: where were you on the evening February 18th?” Gawaine probed casually.

Gilli looked uncomfortable, pained, even, as he fought with himself. Possibly admit to being involved in an armed robbery or face time in prison for wasting police time.

Gawaine stood, walking around the room, looking into the one way glass and quirking his eyebrow; _got ‘cha, Lowndes, got ‘cha_.

 ***

 Gawaine left the interrogation room with a smug smile on his face, feeling a sense of accomplishment that Lowndes had broken down and told him everything. Somehow, through the power of hair flips and winks, Gawaine had spent the past two years charming his way to confessions. He even charmed the staff to doing his will. The work experience girls (and boys) frequently swooned when he passed, went red when he spoke to them and giggled over his long, luscious hair.

“Good job, Grant, I don’t know how you do it,” Detective Chief Inspector Merlin Emrys patted his arm, a proud beam on his face. “Really, I don’t,”  
“Ah, well, that would be telling, although, anything to rub it in Fletcher’s face,” He winked. He straightened out the cuffs of his sleeves and grinned. His inspector, and best friend, gave his arm another tap.

“What have I told you about showing off?”

“It gets all the ladies hot and heavy?"

“No, Gawaine,” Emrys said, chuckling a little. “Hey, I have all this paperwork to do seeing as somebody caught the criminal, but when I’m done, are you up for _Pete’s_?” _Pete’s_ was a little bar about two streets away that had somehow become a Friday night tradition. If the team — which had never been an official team, they were all from separate departments, really — weren’t called out to a crime scene, they gathered in the double booth at the back of the room and ‘caught up’. There was nothing to really catch up on, seeing as they saw each other every single day at work, but it was nice.

“When have I ever said no to _Pete’s_ , Merlin? The team coming?”

“Sent out a text earlier, I’ve not heard anything that would stop them from coming, although Elyan’s on loan to the Ian Barker case, so he might not show,” The two began to walk towards Merlin’s office, where the work experience kids, Kitty and Hannah, most likely, had dumped copious amounts of paperwork on his desk to fill in.

Merlin allowed himself a second to yawn before catching himself; Superintendent Aglain Rowling ran a tight ship and it wouldn’t do to look tired on the job. Just last month, he’d called a meeting about being prepared for duty twenty four hours a day.

“That case looks nasty. I heard Annis talking about it today with Aglain, you know Alice, ginger, looks like she should be a dom—"

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence, Gawaine,” Merlin warned. He didn’t want those kinds of images in his mind. He’d toyed with them himself when he started out working for the police when he was eighteen. At thirty-one, he didn’t want those nightmares again. Gawaine shook his head, snickering, and continued.

“Anyway, I heard Annis talking with Aglain and it sounds gruesome. Is Elyan doing some sort of psychological profile or something like?”

“Something like,” Merlin held open the door to his office and Gawaine sauntered in, rattling on about the way Ian Barker’s skin had been peeled from his body while he was still alive. Merlin was alarmed to find that Gawaine sounded quite joyful about it.

Merlin sat with a blissful sigh and pulled the first piece of paper that required his signature. Better get started, he thought as his shoulders sagged at the size of the pile.

 ***

For thirteen years, Merlin Emrys had worked for the Upper Torton Police Force as a detective and on his twenty ninth birthday had been elevated to Detective Chief Inspector after Laurie Hughs transferred to Stansdale Abbey Metropolitan for better pay. Merlin beat twelve other people for her old position, although occasionally, he regretted it.

The pay was nice; the benefits were even better, but the hours had doubled and, sometimes, he only got two hours sleep before he was back in the office for another full day. The amount of paperwork had doubled, probably even tripled, since he’d taken the position.  
Paperwork was the worst part of the job.

Although now he tended to only have to put his signature on other’s reports, he still had his own to write and was the head of a unit.  
As a kid, he never thought he’d get into the police force, he actually wanted to be a unicorn (or if that didn’t work out, a pilot, like his great-granddad Bernard, who’d flown in World War II). He hadn’t thought about being a detective until he moved in with his Uncle Gaius when he was seventeen, after he’d done his A-Levels.

Gaius Drummond worked in the morgue of the police station and after going in to work with him one day, Merlin became enthralled with cases.  
By the time he was eighteen, he joined the force and by twenty, he transferred to the CID department as a detective constable.  
At twenty two, he became detective sergeant and at twenty five, he was promoted to detective inspector.  
Laurie Hughs had actually pulled him to one side and told him to go for DCI, so he put his name forward and the rest is history.  
He loved his job, he did, he’d had some of the best times in his life, but he hated this part. The sitting around, signing forms and writing out detailed accounts of how the criminal was caught, how he confessed.

He’d prefer to spend his Friday evening at home, or at _Pete’s_ with his friends. For three years now, he’d not left on time on any of his shifts. He’d worked overtime (and had not been paid) every day but it was his own fault, really.  
He was the one who chose to stay.

Merlin wiped his face with his hands and let out a frustrated grunt. It was ten to seven; according to his contract, he should have clocked out at three thirty.

As the clock ticked, he argued with himself. If he started the paperwork due in next Tuesday, he could have a lie in on Monday, but if he left now he wouldn’t be in his work clothes when he met everybody at Pete’s.

He always felt uncomfortable in his work clothes after hours. They suddenly became itchy and too uncomfortable.

Sighing heavily, he closed the folder and pushed out his seat. If he hurried, he could have an extra long shower.  
After this week, he thought, he deserved it.

 

Merlin arrived at _Pete’s_ ten minutes late, as per Merlin etiquette, and made his way to the back of the bar.

The entire team was there (minus Elyan, his sister and her wife), laughing at something Gawaine had done on Tuesday involving a mop. When they spotted Merlin, they cheered obnoxiously whilst banging on the table, managing to spill Forridel’s beer.

“Merlin!” Freya called out, standing up to let him next to Lancelot. Merlin kissed her on the cheek briefly, as one does with an old friend, and wedged his way into the booth, nearly knocking over Will’s pint and brushing Sophia’s crisps off the table.

Pellinore raised his hand in greeting from his spot next to Bedivere, who merely gave a head nod and raise of his pint.

Merlin sat and prepared himself for a night of heavy drinking; even the hangover in the morning would feel like utter bliss.

 ***

 His phone blared out at an obscene hour, pulling him from his reverie. He’d been in Paris with his ex-fiancé, staring out of the hotel window with arms wrapped around him tightly after a glorious fucking which he’d definitely earned.

Grudgingly, he left the cocoon of bed sheets and answered the phone.  
“Emrys.”  
“Emrys, get down here, 32 West Bank View; it’s nasty,” Superintendent Rowling commanded, hanging up straight away.  
And this was why he hated his job.

 

It was just gone 4am when Merlin arrived on the scene. Blue lights flashed in front of the house, alerting the whole of the bloody world that there’d been an accident. Somebody had cordoned off the house with blue tape and several people in their pajamas were snooping around, clutching winter robes to themselves while sipping hot tea, looking as tired as Merlin felt.

He met Chief Inspector Leon Lloyd at the tape surrounding the crime scene. Leon held it up for him with a reassuring look that seemed to say _you’re not the only one_.

“Ari Smythe, 56, ex-convict,” He began as they walked towards the house. Men and women wearing protective clothing came in and out of the front door, carrying all types of equipment and Mordred Edwards, whose only real skill was photographing crime scenes and drinking Elena Yates under the table, snapped away with his camera.

“Imprisoned for?” Merlin uttered, putting on some gloves to prevent crime scene contamination.

“Paedophilia and homicide, sentenced to eighteen years, let out after fourteen,”

“Shit, really?” Merlin retorted. He hated child killers with a passion; in his mind, they were the only ones they should bring back the death penalty for, no question.

They were the scum of the earth

“Really. Time of death estimated at approximately 10.30pm. We’re thinking this is suicide. There’s no sign of forced entry, no foreign prints, nothing. Even the weapon has nothing, but, prepare yourself, it’s not nice,” Leon gestured for Merlin to go through the door with a queasy look on his face. If Leon paled, it had to be bad.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin walked through the door. The first thing he noticed was the body on the floor, surrounded by blood that had stained the carpet. Smythe’s skin was waxy and a pale purple colour, his hands and feet an azure blue, swollen as the blood pooled, the muscles tightening as rigor mortis set in.

Merlin noticed the bruises lining the body; the knife in his left hand, the blood desiccated to it. His eyes followed the line of blood to the chest.  
Merlin saw the knife wounds on the torso, the ‘I’m so sorry’ carved into his chest and stomach, deep, dark etchings that would have contused intensely. His mouth had been cut into a frown — reminding Merlin of The Joker — and stitched back up again with thick fishing wire. His arms were lined with cuts, broad lines that sliced so profoundly that Merlin felt himself nearly gagging. His fingernails were covered in blood from pressing into his arm and his eyes stared, hollow and sallow, the life completely sucked away.

“He did this to himself?” Merlin exclaimed; he’d never seen anybody leave a suicide note on their own body. Sure, he’d seen self harmers, but this was something different.

“Appears so. No other fingerprints; nothing else to say this wasn’t suicide,” Geraint Brennis, from forensics, chirped while brushing for fingerprints on another door frame. Merlin hummed skeptically, getting on hands and knees to have a closer look.  
“What about these bruises?” Leon questioned. “He couldn’t do these to himself,”

“It looks that way, they’re his own fingerprints, it’s his own DNA,” Geraint responded, sounding bored.  
“So you’re telling me that he beat himself, broke his own ribs and then proceeded to carve his apology into his own chest with a blunt ceramic knife?” Leon shifted on his feet as Merlin began to dust for fingerprints, again. There had to be something. Why would a man put himself through that pain before he died? Guilty conscience? It couldn’t be that. He’d shown no qualms over his sins in court. What could push a person to abuse themselves the way Ari Smythe had?

Merlin couldn’t think of a single thing.

Merlin got down face to face to take in the details; there were 8 stitches either side, small and precise, although it looked as though he’d dropped a stitch on his right cheek. The flesh around it was red and aggravated with blue bruising tones around the holes. Blood had clogged along the wound, dense and dark.

Other than that, it was a clean job. Smythe had really known how to sow. Merlin shuddered as he looked down at the apology; the burgundy blood that had begun to dry over crimson muscle. The ashen skin with lilac hues that joined abyssal slashes. He reached out and touched, trying to feel for the deepness.  
Three inches. Four inches.

A piece of skin flaked away as he pulled his hand out and he gestured for somebody to pass him either a tissue or an evidence bag. It wasn’t unheard of for a murderer to leave a part of himself inside the victim’s wounds.  
Merlin had seen it done copious amounts of times - a hair, a piece of clothing, a piece of metal from where the murderer worked.  
Geraint handed him an evidence bag and wiped his hand on the inside of it, contemplating putting the entire glove in, just in case, before zipping it up and passing it back.

Next, he looked at Smythe’s arms. The deep slits made by his own fingernails that had pulled away flesh. Surely, no person leaving a suicide note in their own flesh would dig in this deeply.

“Has anybody checked his blood alcohol content? Or for carbon monoxide poisoning? Anything?” Merlin questioned, suddenly feeling the overwhelming desire to scratch his nose, despite both hands being covered in another man’s blood.

“I believe a sample’s been taken, Chief, but until the results come back, which will be in about a day or two, I can’t tell you anything,” Geraint shrugged, folding his arms across his chest.

“Leon, has anybody looked for CCTV cameras in the area? There has to be proof of homicide somewhere. No man would do this to themselves,” Merlin pointed, looking around at the two other men. Leon itched his own chin, deep in thought.

“Look, honestly, there’s no evidence for homicide, it’s all pointing to suicide,” Freya confirmed as she walked through the door a few moments later. Her hair was sticking up at all angles, as if she’d not even given a second thought to leaving the house with a bed head and she stared at Merlin as if demanding he try to argue against scientific facts.

Merlin shook his head. No, it wasn’t suicide.

It couldn’t be.

 

***

 After a week of gruelling, painstaking work trying to prove Smythe had been murdered, the official paperwork finally said suicide and Merlin was content with that. The forensics team had scoured high and low for evidence, as Merlin watched CCTV video footage, frame by frame, until everything pointed to suicide.

Uncle Gaius and Kilgarrah had slaved over the body for days, trying to get a shred of anything to prove it was murder, not suicide, but to no avail, and Merlin sighed happily knowing he could sleep well tonight.

“If you look to your left, you’ll see a man who looks as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders,” Percivale Martin taunted from the door frame.

“Hilarious, Perce. You want anything in particular or are you just enjoying the view?” Merlin flexed while shooting a smirk in Percivale’s direction.  
“Actually, I came to see if you wanted to come grab a coffee across the street with me and Lancelot,” He rocked on his feet as if expecting rejection. He’d asked every day this week and been dismissed because Merlin had his head in research, refusing to leave in case he missed something.

Merlin sighed and stood, pushing his seat in. Twenty minutes away from the office couldn’t hurt.  
He had earned the break, after all.  
Percivale gave a blinding grin that Merlin couldn’t help but return. Merlin liked Percivale. He’d been one of the first people Merlin had met when he joined.

Although Percivale had hoped to go into forensics. Somewhere along the line, he’d become Detective Sergeant and nobody really knew how.  
Lance, however, was pretty new to the team. He was a medical examiner and had transferred a year and a half before. He’d moved into Percivale’s house as a lodger, keeping himself to himself at first, until somehow he became a permanent member of Merlin’s friendship group.

At first, he turned down any invitations to come along with the ‘gang’ but slowly, he made an appearance, until one day, he became the first on the scene. Lance was a good man and Merlin often thought that if Lance was gay, they would have ended up together.

But, unfortunately, Lance was very much hetero - Merlin had met his long term girlfriend, Bronwen Adamson. They were the kind of sweet that would be sickening if it was anybody else, but they went so well together that the group looked past the loathsome nicknames and cutesy behaviour. She wasn’t in the habit of coming out with the team, but she made the effort when she had the energy.

Merlin closed the door behind him, remembering to lock it; last time he’d left his door open, Gawaine had stapled porn stills to every visible item, even the stapler. Looking back, it was funny, at the time, Merlin could have killed him; he was showing the mayor around the building that day.  
They walked down the hallway, taking a left and exiting at the south entrance. Lance was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a small smile on his face as he tapped away on his ancient phone that was a relic from the dawn of time while tapping his foot, almost impatiently.

“Alright, Osbourne?” Percivale nudged Lance’s side and he looked up with a dreamy expression on his face. Lance shook his head, blinking away the illusory air.

“Not bad,” He grinned, scratching at his dark skin. “Ready to go?” He gestured to the coffee shop and the three sauntered off into that direction, Lance prattling on about Bronwen’s latest baking experiment that nobody would get to try until next Christmas.  
“These lemon squares were gorgeous,” Lance sighed.

“I don’t know, man, I think I’ll stick with Tesco’s bakers. They actually let me eat the things they make,” Percivale snickered, holding open the door.

They took a seat by the newspaper stands - in front of the red wall - and Lance gave the barista their orders. The three of them just had regular coffees, none of the ‘exotic’ mumbo jumbo that the others in the team had, and Merlin began to fidget with a menu on the table to keep his hands busy. Merlin hated sitting still - it unnerved him.

Moments later, the barista set down the three mugs and scampered back to the till. Merlin watched her, noticing how clumsy she was, for a barista, and Lance and Percivale watched him with pondering looks on their faces, as was customary every time Merlin came out with them.  
“How are you, Merlin?” Lance finally asked.

“Fine, you?” Merlin sniffed, taking a gulp of coffee.

“No, but how are you really?” Ah. Merlin was finally beginning to see the ulterior motive of this meeting. Of course his friends had noticed how invested he was in his work.

“Honestly, Lance, Perce, I’m fine. Happy to see the case go, to be honest,” Merlin admitted with a nonchalant shrug. He raised a brow as Lance studied him carefully, looking for the tell tale signs that he wasn’t okay.

Merlin had a history of getting so into his cases that it consumed his every thought, just like last Christmas when Betty Lorraine was found dead by her lover. The story didn’t add up and Merlin wore himself to the ground trying to bring justice to her murderer. He was almost forced to leave the squad by Superintendant Rowling.

When he found none of the signs, Lance grinned.

“Good. That’s good. It’s just,” He paused, as if unsure what approach to take. He leaned forward, giving a quick glance to Percivale who was reading the front of a newspaper noncommittally. “No, forget it,” He shook his head then downed his coffee, eyes flitting from Merlin to Percivale. Percivale sighed.

“What Lance is trying to say is that he thinks he found evidence that was overlooked,”

“Overlooked? What?”

“I’m chief medical examiner, right?” Merlin hummed and nodded his head. “Well, I got first look at the body before the morticians, before Gaius, before Kilgarrah, before the rest of the team. When I was looking over the body and through Smythe’s notes, I noticed something odd,” At this, Lance shifted in his seat, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Smythe is right handed,”

“So?” Merlin coughed, tapping the side of his coffee mug.

“The knife was found in his left hand, was it not?” Lance questioned. Percivale raised his eyebrow, watching Merlin’s reaction curiously.

“It was,”

“And,” Lance breathed. “I was looking at the lacerations and I noticed that whoever cut into Smythe’s chest had to have been standing arms length away. The wounds are too clean to be done by Smythe; especially by his left arm. I took a look at the wire on his face and... that was done at least ten minutes after his heart had stopped,”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Emrys, I’ve been doing this since I was in nappies! Of course I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” Merlin snapped, feeling ready to hit his head on the table. Any lead, any at all, would have been a help. Now a murderer was walking free.

“Kilgarrah told me not to. Your uncle told me it was all pishposh, it was definitely Smythe’s own hands that had caused it, and when he left the room, Kilgarrah told me not to say anything to you,”

At this, Merlin stood, slamming a fiver down on the side and mumbling something about not having any change.

“Merlin? Where are you going?” Percivale asked as Merlin clambered out of the booth.

“The Morgue,” He barked.

***

 Kilgarrah Drake was bent over his desk reading through reports and eating an apple from his left hand when Merlin jostled open the door and it thwacked against the wall.

“Ah, young master Merlin, to what do I owe this pleasure?” He drawled before closing one of the reports and pivoting to face the red-faced man who had just burst into his office door. Kilgarrah had been a friend of the family for years and usually Merlin grinned widely, asked Kilgarrah what the weather was like -- he was over a foot taller than Merlin, which was saying something -- and they talked about everything and anything. Now, Merlin looked like he was forcing himself to refrain from throttling Kilgarrah, for Gaius’ sake and not his own.

“Lance told me what you said.”

“What I said? I’ve said a lot of things, you’ll have to jog my memory,” Kilgarrah crossed his arms and sat on the desk.

“About Ari Smythe. You told him to deliberately withhold evidence, Kilgarrah, you told him not to say anything,” Merlin slammed the door closed. Kilgarrah gave a shrug.

“The boy was wrong, I was merely trying to save him the embarrassment.”

“Lancelot Osbourne is the chief medical examiner - he’s never wrong,” Merlin hissed. Kilgarrah’s blasé attitude towards the situation just antagonised Merlin further.

“We’re all wrong at one time or another, Merlin, it’s just a part of life. Lance is a fine young man although he is a slight, what you would say, sore loser. He would only have caused an argument.”

“And rightly so. In all of his career, Lance has never been wrong about a death and you know it. So why, Kilgarrah, did you tell him to purposefully withhold that shred of information? A murderer could, is, walking around free right now because the report claims this crime was a suicide!” Merlin exclaimed. He pounded his fist against the wall then took a deep breath, waiting for Kilgarrah’s explanation.

“The lesions clearly pointed to suicide, Merlin. Gaius himself confirmed this. Your uncle is never wrong, either. If a murderer is walking free, it is of no fault of ours, I am as sure as I am tall that this is suicide, no matter what your medical examiner says,” Kilgarrah uttered. Merlin glared, furious and scornful. He sighed, running a hand through his head and trying to run through his options.

Option one, Merlin ignored Lance’s opinion and things continued how they are. Option two, Merlin fought tooth and nail for Lance’s claims to be taken seriously and have the case reopened. Even if he did follow Lance’s avowal, there were no leads to follow, no fingerprints, no shoe prints, nothing to even point to homicide other than Lance’s statement.  
Even if he did tell of Lance’s observation, the force weren’t exactly jumping at the thought of catching a child killer’s murderer.

Merlin wasn’t either.

He was worried for the rest of the town - what was to say that the killer would stop at Smythe? Innocent people could die if the killer existed. Innocent people that Merlin had vowed to protect when he signed up to the police force.  
He began to pace.

He wasn’t sure where to begin if he ever reopened the case. There was nothing more to look at. Every inch of Smythe’s house had been scoured for evidence and nothing. Absolutely nothing. This much Merlin said aloud.

“It may be time to bring him back, Merlin,” Kilgarrah finally said after a long pause, stroking greying stubble around his mouth thoughtfully. His eyes followed Merlin analytically.

“No, absolutely not!” Merlin growled. “I made a promise, Kilgarrah, and I’m not about to break it for some bastard who decided to off themselves,” He was shocked that Kilgarrah would bring it up. It had been years since anybody had suggested that. Even back then Merlin refused. But now, it was more important than ever. Merlin would never go back on his word.

“So you agree that it is suicide?” The elder questioned, holding Merlin’s gaze with steely eyes.  
Merlin felt guilt rising in his stomach as he said:

“Like you said, being wrong is part of everyday life.”

 ***

 Merlin stopped at the pizza shop at the end of his street on the way home. Enervated, he gave his order and took a seat at one of the plastic chairs and tables as George and the others made no rush to make his food. Instead, they rambled in Turkish, laughing occasionally, and pointing at a TV screen at the back of the kitchen.

A couple that lived four doors down from Merlin walked in holding hands and Merlin felt a sense of longing. Not for the couple, but for what they had.

Recently, he’d been feeling lonely; he had even considered using that dating website that Will and Gawaine had suggested. They’d never used it, because Gawaine (annoyingly) could get any person he desired and Will was engaged to Freya. They’d both seen it advertised on the internet and decided it was good enough for Merlin.

The couple sat directly across from Merlin and he couldn’t help but stare; they looked so good together. He wanted that. He wanted somebody he could feel at ease around, but, unfortunately, he’d not found that romantically since he was twenty five. At twenty five, he’d been fully committed, ready to marry, ready to start a full life with his sweetheart.  
Merlin would have given his right arm for him, and he would admit, still would, but not everything works the way it is hoped. His lover also worked on the team and took a bullet for him, which forced him into — very — early retirement when he suffered PTSD.

He cut off all ties, including Merlin, who made the promise that he wouldn’t call him back when they were at a loose end. He was a brilliant detective and put together a dossier before the criminal profilers; every time, he caught the killer, even if there was no evidence of homicide. He would have gone all the way to the top if it hadn’t been for the accident, which Merlin held himself responsible for. The bullet was meant for him, after all.

George summoned Merlin from his deep thoughts by pushing his kebab and chips onto the counter and shouting ‘ _oi, mate, your order_ ’.

 

For the first time in months, Merlin finally got to watch his favourite TV show _Moirai_ on time rather than on catch-up at the weekend, although everything after Bristan and Enbane entering the Tomb of Ashkanar to rescue Darrkkon and Dorn from the Witch Queen Kilassari was lost to him as he fell asleep in front of the TV with his plate on his legs and a can of Carlsberg in his hand.

 ***

 Merlin grumbled and mumbled as he was pulled from his slumber by his annoyingly high pitched ringtone. He swore when he realised that at some point in the night, he’d dropped half a can of Carlsberg over the flooring and allowed the phone to continue ringing as he scrubbed away at the stain with a sponge that he got from under the sink.

It was only seven fifteen in the morning; whatever it was they wanted, they could wait. He scrubbed wildly as the phone continued to ring, vibrating until it fell off its place on the coffee table and landed on the floor. With a frustrated sigh, Merlin answered the phone the next time it rang.

“Emrys.”

“Hi, Merlin,” Came a voice he hadn’t expected to hear.

“M-Morgana?” He stuttered, jumping up, ready for action. Morgana didn’t call Merlin; Gwen called Merlin, once every six months to let him know that everything was okay. Morgana only called when something was seriously wrong. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Calm down, everything is fine!” She promised, sounding a little out of breath. If Merlin remembered rightly, now would be her morning jog around the little town that she and Gwen resided in. “Gwen asked me to call - she’s really busy right now, can’t get a bloody moment to herself. It seems the whole universe is lining up to be assessed by Doctor Blake,” Merlin could tell Morgana rolled her eyes. Gwen and Morgana had been married since before Merlin was introduced to them; somebody had once told him they’d been married since they were seventeen, midway through their A-Levels. Neither of their parents thought it would last, despite giving their permission, but 12 years later, they were still going strong. The last time Merlin had spoken to Gwen, they’d been considering children, but he wasn’t sure whether they actually were having them or not.

Gwen had been in University training to be a psychiatrist when Merlin met her. She’d been in her final year doing her research project, conducting a psychological study in the dark side of psychology. Her hair was constantly in a state of disarray, her eyes had dark bags underneath them and Merlin was sure she hardly ate unless Morgana took away her folders and forced her to. Morgana was doing literature, studying to be-- well, she didn’t really know. Even now, she still didn’t know what she really wanted to be, despite being one of many personal assistants/night time secretaries for an international law firm. She only worked three days a week -- although the hours were long and tough -- but the pay was glorious.

“Well, she is the best in the business,” Merlin remarked, sitting down. He noticed he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday and felt a little disgusted. He hadn’t slept in his clothes since he was nineteen and Will had taken him on a binge drinking weekend.  
He didn’t remember much from that weekend.

“That she is,” Morgana replied wistfully. “Anyway, Emrys, Gwen asked me to call and ask you if you’d like to meet for coffee this afternoon,”

“I’d love to,” He retorted, probably a little too quickly. Morgana laughed breathlessly and he heard the sound of traffic lights alerting blind people it was alright to cross the street.

“Quarter past one at Accardi Coffee? You know where I mean, don’t you? It’s right round the corner from Gwen’s workplace?”

“I know it well,”

“Alright, we’ll see you there,”

“Okay,” He smiled then remembered she couldn’t see him. There was a long silence where Merlin listened to Morgana running through town. He could hear cars passing and the sound of her sharp, ragged breaths.

“Merlin, I’ll see you la-”

“Wait! How’s–How’s Arthur?” Merlin interrupted.  
He had to know; this was the only reason Gwen called him, to talk about how Arthur was doing. Whether he was okay, whether his condition was worsening; Merlin worried. He’d not seen Arthur in years, but he always knew what was going on. He suspected Arthur knew that Merlin was keeping tabs on him.

“He’s good. He actually came over for lunch yesterday. His surgery was closed because of a burst water pipe or something.” That’s not what I asked, Merlin thought. Morgana sighed. “He’s good, more than good, Gwen thinks they’ve found the right medication. The last one made him tired all the time, if you remember, he always felt sluggish. Richard and Karen say he’s just like he used to be before it got bad.”

“That’s good,” He said twice, like a mantra, trying to drill into his own mind that there was nothing to worry about. Arthur was fine, more than fine. There was no cause for concern, and everything was okay. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, allowing the news to just sink in.

“Yeah. Alright then, Merlin, I’ll be seeing you.”

“See you,” Merlin stayed on the line until the long monotonous beep almost drove him insane.

 ***

 Merlin drove to work late, deciding that he would stick to contract times today and take a long lunch, damn the consequences. He was the boss -- he answered to nobody. Except Aglain Rowling, but Aglain Rowling’s office was within the other building which was at the opposite end of town, which, thankfully, was twenty minutes away.

Bizarrely, the station was split into two halves (North and South Block). Merlin worked in South Block which housed the morgue, CID and the laboratory. It was, in essence, specifically for the detective side of the force, whereas North Block was everything else.

It was odd how it all worked out, as the two were almost identical inside out, although South Block was merely specialised.  
Both blocks had been newly refurbished in the past year and Rowling had decided, during the design period, that he needed a new, bigger office and was moved to North Block. Although, that didn’t stop him breathing down Merlin’s neck and calling team meetings to discuss how they can be prepared to spring into action ‘25 hours a day, 8 days a week’.

Aglain was a small, weedy man with dark skin and black eyes that seemed to suck the light out of a room. Outside of the workplace, he was kind and gentle, but inside the workplace, he was a python ready to strike at any given moment.

His wife, Angela, held bi-monthly work parties that the force attended (to be nice). At first, Merlin was shocked that the sweetheart that was Angela was married to Authoritarian Aglain, but he’d soon learned that his boss left the nicey-nicey persona at home.  
Perhaps it was because of Chief Constable Anhora Rathbone’s schedule in the next town over, or perhaps it was because he was hoping his force would be the best this side of England. Nobody knew but, grudgingly and internally, they thanked him for his stricter-than-average rules.  
Work was hectic when he arrived.

Kitty and Hannah were running back and forth floor one to finish printing paperwork for floor three, floor three was busier than Merlin had seen in a long time — apparently, the floor three technicians were needed on a crime scene in the next town after a murder in the city left Anhora’s force practically bare — and everybody in the building seemed to be slightly on edge.

Merlin climbed the stairs to floor seven, where his office was. The building was nine storey’s, not including a basement and ‘the underground’ where the morgue was. The basement, which wasn’t really a basement, was where they stored evidence and was beneath the morgue. There was always at least two officers down there, in case somebody tried to break in and remove evidence. It had happened before.

Usually it was two newbies who weren’t qualified enough to run around solving the crimes but were more qualified than the people photocopying who were put on guard.

The morgue was above that with its offices for the senior staff and a huge staff room that made the other’s look a little shabby as those down there actually looked after it. Gaius, Kilgarrah and their team kept it clean and remembered to not leave their teabags all over the side like in the other staff rooms.

Ground floor was the forensic medical examiner’s floor. Lance (and his team) had an examination room, an office, a staff room with vending machines, a fridge and a microwave and the same magazine that hadn’t been put in the bin since Stacey O’Hara left it on her first day as an intern fourteen years ago. She was fired a week later for contaminating evidence, Gaius had told Merlin once.

First floor was usually the busiest floor. It was the main entrance for the public unless they climbed the back stairs that were really meant for the fire escape, but the revamp meant that a back entrance was put in on floor two. Floor one held the reception (which Laura Wolver, Emily Dickinson and Markus Wright worked at).  
It also had part of central communication command and the front office. It had the photocopying room that the work experience kids ended up working in.

Floor two was the majority of central communication command for South Block. On the same floor was the writing room, the incident room and a staff room that already needed another paint job. The public canteen, kitchen and kitchen office were on floor two. Merlin was always slightly envious of the public canteen; the food always tasted so much nicer.  
Floor three was the laboratories. At the end of one of the corridors was the crime scene examiner’s lab, which Merlin much prefered. The actual lab had evidence from both blocks and had once won an award for being the best in that side of England. There was a little block of offices for the scientists and examiners as well as a technician’s room that Merlin used to sit in all the time before he worked for the force.

There was a fingerprint room on the floor, although it was rarely used as people favoured the other on floor eight. The technician’s room was next to the staff room that had the best water cooler in the building.

Floor four held the intelligence unit, the computer room, the male and female locker rooms and the uniform briefing room. There were offices on here for other members of staff but Merlin wasn’t sure who. In the computer room, there was a room off to the side that was the photo development room. Until recently, Merlin had assumed it had been in the lab, but the refurbishment had put it in the most awkward room in existence. It was the only floor that didn’t have a staff room, but it didn’t matter because floor five was the work canteen. The canteen, kitchen and kitchen’s office were on the left side and there were three inspector’s offices, with an observation room and a soft interview room. The front interview was next to that.

Floor six was the criminal investigation department, with the CID briefing room. Detective Inspectors had their offices on this floor.  
Floor seven was where Merlin’s office was. There were a few more offices and a solicitor's room as well as two interview and observation rooms. Another soft interview room, which was for children and victims, was directly across from Merlin. The staff room was small, although the choice on the vending machine’s was brilliant. There was a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk that seemed to replace themselves every couple of days and a bag of sugar that had been there since the dawn of time that everybody veered away from. Everybody usually used the shop across the road anyway.

Floor eight was the custody office that merged into floor nine. Floor eight had the better fingerprint room, a small interview room with an observation room, a solicitor’s room and three male cells. The female cells were upstairs as well as the detention cells and another custody office. Often, floor eight and nine were just considered the same floor, as they were practically the same thing.  
There was a lift that ran up the building, although it only went as far as floor six on the east side of the building so people had to get out, go down the corridor and catch the other lift that went all the way up to nine.

“Emrys! Just the kid I was dying to see,” Gawaine swung his arm around Merlin’s shoulders as they walked down floor seven. He’d stepped out of one of the observation rooms that Merlin hadn’t realised was in use.

“What do you want, Grant?” Merlin sighed, unlocking his door and stepping in. He looked around, checking for any wires that Gawaine might have planted. Somehow, Gawaine and Merlin were in a game of one-upmanship that nobody was sure how it started. Gawaine sat in the visitors chair in front of Merlin’s desk and put his legs up onto it. Of course. His signature move. “If you just wanted somewhere to put your legs, the staff room is down the hall and your office is two floors down,”

“Actually, I came to tell you that Leon’s coming across later. About ten, eleven. He’s got a message from above that’s meant for your eyes only,”

“So, naturally, you and he know exactly what’s in the letter?” Merlin sat in his desk and booted up his work computer. He wondered what was so important that Rowling couldn’t just pick up the phone and press #4 on his speed dial.

“I’m insulted that you think I’d stoop that low. Really, Merlin, it hurts right here,” He put his heart and mocked affronted. “Leon told me to fuck right off when I asked him to open it.”

 _Thank God for small mercies_ , Merlin thought. His eyes raked over Gawaine, noticing the yellow bruise around his eye and cheekbone. What the hell’s he gone and done now?

“What’s with the, y’know,” Merlin gestured to his own face and around his eye. Merlin had heard stories of how Gawaine used to be before he joined the force so he supposed it was a small victory that he wasn’t hooked up to a life support machine now.

“Last night, I asked a girl for the time and her boyfriend, this huge bull dog like thing, comes over and tries to knock me for six!” Gawaine chortled. “If it wasn’t for Amy - that’s the girl, by the way - this bloke might’ve killed me. The bruise has, I admit, got me action.”

“Oh for– Gawaine!” Merlin yelled. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Gawaine used the bruise for a quite lay. It was so like Gawaine. He’d made it his life goal to sleep his way through the entire population.

Gawaine cackled, leaning back in his chair.

He looked slightly childlike when he threw back his head, although he always reminded Merlin of a naughty schoolboy. The type that spend their days in isolation and their evenings in detention, go home and either terrorise old ladies by hanging in groups on the street corner, jeering or terrorise their own mother while playing a violent videogame.

Merlin’s sources told him that was exactly what Gawaine was like after his Dad died when he was thirteen, then suddenly, when he was eighteen and had barely passed his way through school and a bricklayer’s apprenticeship, he did a full 180 and was suddenly the model man.

“Anyway,” Gawaine chirped. “What’s wrong with you? You look like someone stole your ice cream, mate.”

“Morgana called,” Merlin said to a blank expression. Gawaine hadn’t known Arthur or Morgana or Gwen. He’d heard the official story that was on the reports, but straight from Merlin’s mouth and even he knew it was complete bullshit. He knew he’d never get the full real story. Not from Merlin. Not from Percivale. Not from Leon. Aglain Rowling was definitely out of the question. He’d just have to make do from overhearing Will and Merlin, although if he asked Merlin, Merlin would tell him everything. “Gwen’s wife?” Nothing. “Arthur’s sister?”

“Shit, really? What’s happened? Do you need to go to the hospital? I can cover for you if you need me to.”

“Everything’s okay, but they want to meet me for lunch,” Merlin sighed, typing in his ID number and his password when the computer asked for it. It froze halfway through and, frustratingly, he had to type his password three times.

Coffee had become another word for lunch whenever Gwen invited him out. Every six months, they met, they talked and then they had to pretend they didn’t speak to each other for the next six months.

“They want to meet you for lunch?” Gawaine repeated. “What’s wrong with lunch?”

“Nothing. We just don’t meet for ‘lunch’. Me and Gwen meet every six months to talk about Arthur’s progression and how everybody’s doing,”  
“When’s the last time you spoke? Six months ago?” Gawaine asked, taking his feet off the desk. Merlin shook his head while giving a little yawn.

“Two months ago. She met with me to talk about changing Arthur’s medication. Not that it’s any of my business anymore.” It was bothering him. Despite Morgana saying everything was fine, it was bothering him.  
Gawaine was silent, stroking his chin with thoughtful fingers. His brown eyes clouded over as he thought, like they did when he was working on a particularly hard sudoku or when they were working on a case in the briefing room. It made him look intelligent and slightly dangerous, Merlin thought. “It’s making me worry. What if it’s bad news, Gawaine? They’d never tell me bad news over the phone unless someone was in the hospital. Even then it would only be because they were too far away to pick me up.”

“Maybe they just want to see you. It’s been years since Arthur took early retirement. From what I’ve heard, you guys were closer than family from the get-go. They might just be really missing you.”

“But wouldn’t they text me that? Surely if they missed me that much, they’d tell me.”

“Women work in strange ways and I don’t think I’ll ever understand them, Emrys, but there’s one thing I can tell you—” Merlin’s work phone blared loudly, interrupting whatever Gawaine was about to reveal.

Merlin apologised as Rowling’s name flashed on the screen.

“Emrys,” He answered.

“225 Cumberland Street. Get a team together and be here in the next 10 minutes,” Rowling demanded, hanging up immediately. Merlin sighed deeply. He sat there a few sections, revelling in the tranquility and slowly allowing his authority side to take control.

“Gawaine, I need you to go down to CID and get together as many people as you can, tell them they have five minutes otherwise they’re fired.”  
“Shit, really?” Gawaine asked, wide eyed.  
“No, not really, but they need to move. Orders from Rowling. Now go!” He shooed Gawaine with a flick of his wrist. He picked up his phone and called Lance, telling him to meet him by the cars in five minutes with his own mini-team and he text Mordred telling him to make his own way. It was Mordred’s half day where he got the morning off unless a case came up. He supposed North Block would have their own photographer, but he liked to have his own there.

Merlin pressed the off button on his computer screen, leaving the tower to whir away and left his office, remembering to lock it behind him.

***

 225 Cumberland Street was, in all senses, a dump. It was in Lower Torton, near the Branning Junction, where crime rate was at its highest and, as a result, it was where the most criminals lived. The unsavory drug dealers, the thieves, the murderers, the rapists, the paedophiles, the I’ll-fuck-you-for-a-cigarette prostitutes, anybody who’d ever been in prison, anybody who was on the bottom rung of society ; they all lived in Lower Torton.

The kids who lived in that area were dragged up and went on to be criminals, statistically. There was always that one that surprised everybody and went on to become a lawyer or worked a high end job where they earned three times as much as Merlin ever would but that was rarer than a blue moon.

It was only five streets long but it was the shadiest estate Merlin had ever known - and he’d grown up in East Ealdor!  
It was gone 10am when Merlin pulled up at the scene with Gawaine and Percivale. There was a crowd of people surrounding, talking amongst themselves and wondering what happened, although they couldn’t see anything other than police tape, a huge van and a few constables telling them to back to their days. There was nothing to see, move along.

He hopped out of his car after quickly cutting the engine and a small, mousy girl with dark skin ran up to his side with a coffee in her hand.  
“Superintendant Rowling asks you to drink this quickly then hurry up and get there, Sir,” She squeaked, holding it up to him with a shaky, nervous hand. She sounded younger than she looked, although she still looked far too young to be working for the team.  
“Alright, thanks,” He trailed off, unsure of her name. He’d never seen her around before, although he was sure he probably would never see her again.  
“Elaine. Elaine Dubois,” She grinned, shifting nervously. Elaine played with the hem of her skirt, watching Merlin through her eyelashes before giving an awkward wave and scurrying back towards Inspector Mills, North Blocks resident dickhead, with wide, fascinated eyes.  
Merlin scoffed, beginning to walk over to the house and Leon fell into step beside him.

“Osgar Wolff, 49. Time of death estimated at 6.45am. Served 17 years for paedophilia, child slaughter and the theft of one Sony Ericsson, although he was actually sentenced to 21 years,”  
“Another one?” Merlin questioned after a sip of the half frozen coffee.

“I know. It seems someone’s doing our job for us,” Leon remarked. “We’re thinking suicide again, although there’s talk of a suicide pact. I haven’t seen the body yet, although Rowling and our medical examiner are sure of it,”

“Suicide pact?”

“Rowling’s put here that ‘you’ll know what I mean when you see it’.” Leon pushed the gate open with his foot and gestured for Merlin to go first. Merlin entered the house through the opening door and the smell of excrement and dirt hit him like a brick wall. He put a hand over his mouth to try and stop himself from gagging, but to no avail. His eyes watered as he ventured deeper into the house, following other officers who looked in a similar state.

Wolff’s body lay in the centre of the dining room, on top of the table, staining the greying tablecloth. A utility knife was clutched in Wolff’s right hand, which had four deep cuts on the back, and his black shirt’s button’s had been ripped open. I’m So Sorry was carved into his chest, just like Smythe, and his mouth and cheeks had been stitched by purple thread.  
Wolff’s blue eyes were open, wide and panicked, as if he died in extreme pain and his wounds matched Smythe’s body. Thick slashes coated every visible piece of flesh and Merlin’s insides shuddered at the thought.

“Suicide pact?” Merlin asked Rowling who was mumbling to a medical examiner.

“Same conditions as last time, same marks, no witnesses. Not even his lodger heard a peep. No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints - this has to be the work of a suicide pact, Emrys.”

“A suicide pact, right,” Merlin said sarcastically. He walked towards the body while putting on plastic gloves that somebody had handed him as he’d passed through the living room. “What person would agree to this sort of suicide?”

“A guilty one.” Rowling clucked.

“So you’re telling me a man who served 17 years for paedophilia and murder suddenly feels ever-so-guilty and rather than hanging himself, he joins this suicide pact where he can kill himself in the most degrading way possible?”

“Rowling’s right,” chimed in a redhead who looked as though they’d not slept for a week. “The cuts all point to suicide, your boy snapped some pictures of the body before we dusted the knife and guess what? No other prints other than Wolff. Not even the lodger.”  
“Who’s this lodger?” Merlin coughed, looking over the body, his eyes were drawn to gashes on his chest, the painful red against pasty white; the crimson and cream blending together in a way that made Merlin’s chest tight.

“Cerdan Green. 34, working on his Doctorate in Music at the University. No idea that Wolff was a paedophile until this morning when our boys questioned him at the scene,” the redhead bleated, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.  
“Take him to the station. When I’m done here, I have a few questions for him,” Merlin barked, turning towards the ashen, purpling body and hearing the sound of people bending to his will.

In his mind, he knew this wouldn’t be finished by one.

***

 Cerdan Green was different to what Merlin expected. He’d expected dirty, creepy and everything he didn’t want to associate with. Instead, he got a man who threw up every time someone mentioned he’d been living with a paedophile. Instead, he got a man who was in pieces. Instead, he found one of the nicest men he’d ever come across.

“Mr Green, I know it must be difficult for you, but could you please, again, describe what Osgar Wolff was like when you found him?” Detective Constable Freya Ferguson questioned. Cerdan stuttered and stammered through his statement, crying into a couple of Kleenex that Geraint had supplied out of his own box in the technicians room.

Merlin stayed silent, listening to the catechizing, unsure of how to respond to the situation. Green wasn’t guilty of murder, hell, Green wasn’t guilty of anything, but there was something niggling in the back of his mind. There was no way this was a suicide.  
It wasn’t a suicide pact between guilty paedophiles that wanted nothing but peace. Rowling and North Block were the only ones to believe that. South Block, and Merlin, were adamant that this was murder, but nobody wanted to be right that it was. Smythe and Wolff were childkillers. They were child rapists.

They were the kind of people CID wanted dead and burning in hell, so they kept their mouths shut (other than Merlin whose hunch wouldn’t keep quiet, even if he tried to).

“Mr Green, you’re free to go. Do you have anybody to go to in the area? The house would be unsuitable now it’s a crime scene, you may disturb the scene and contaminate any evidence that we find.”  
“Can I borrow a phone?” Cerdan dabbed at his eyes.

“Of course you can, here, you can use my office,” Freya smiled softly, standing up and pressing stop on the tape player. Merlin looked at the one way glass, hoping that anybody behind their had got something out of his body language, out of anything, that could be used as evidence. Surely, he had to know something. Wolff must have been acting odd if he’d been planning to kill himself. There had to have been something different about him.

And how had Green not heard his cries of pain as Wolff sliced into himself?

Merlin waited until Green and Freya had left the room, pretending to write something down in his paperwork when really he was thinking how he’d had to cancel the lunch with Morgana and Gwen, putting it off until the next Tuesday.  
He had another week to worry about what they needed to tell him. Why couldn’t fate have been with him today? Just one day?  
Merlin stood and walked out, meeting Gawaine and Leon at the observation room. Rowling sat, scribbling away at a piece of paper with a blunt pencil.

“We’re all in agreement that this is suicide, but it’s your call, Emrys. We have to wait a few days for test results but it’s my bet that they come back clear and reveal that this is suicide,” Rowling shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair.

“We’re keeping this case open, Aglain. The cases are too similar to be suicide and too precise to be a pact unless they’re getting someone to kill them. Aglain, if we’re wrong about this, paedophiles might not be the only people this murderer kills. They might go on and kill anybody. Anybody at all. These might be random targets who have ended up being paedophiles and I’m not prepared to take the risk that this murderer only kills bastards like Wolff. I don’t want to be stood here in two months time saying I told you so when we have a morgue full of innocents, Aglain,”  
Aglain paused, looking from the three men in front of him back to the paper.

He let out a sigh.

“Fine, we’ll keep the case open but if in two months, I’m standing in front of you saying I told you,” he trailed, folding his arms and staring Merlin in the eyes. It was nerve-wracking, that gaze. Almost as bad as Gaius’. “You’ll owe me an apology in front of the whole team. North and South,” With that, he trudged out of the room leaving a tense feeling.

“Wanker,” Gawaine uttered under his breath.

 

  **Chapter Two: Sins of The Father**  


 Leon knocked on the door to Merlin’s office at four minutes past three, swinging the door open without even bothering to wait for affirmation that he was okay to do so. He supposed Merlin wouldn’t mind; they’d been friends for a very, very long time. Not as long as Merlin had known Will, who transferred simply so he’d no longer be alone in Ealdor, but since Merlin had started visiting Gaius. Leon’s dad had worked with Gaius before he had a heart attack and died when Leon was just fourteen.

Since then, Gaius had taken Leon under his wing. Merlin and Leon had spent every Christmas together since then, and when Merlin moved in with Gaius at eighteen, Leon had been his only friend for a time.

Percivale came along just after Merlin joined the police, then Arthur, who was Leon’s second cousin on his mother’s side (he was actually Leon’s first cousin, but after what Uther did, the Lloyd’s pushed that family as far away as possible).

Over the years, a small team had built up, which Leon liked. He’d always felt his family was tense and unnatural. He was never allowed to be himself in the house - but the friendship group allowed him to do what he liked.

It was nice.

“Leon?” Merlin looked slightly perplexed, as if he wasn’t expecting him.

“I forgot your letter. Got halfway home then noticed it on the passenger seat,” He held it out and Merlin took it from him, staring at it like it had just grown two heads and a dragon’s tail. “Are you alright? You look a little, y’know.”

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine, it’s just, Rowling saw me earlier, surely he’d have said something?”  
“I don’t even pretend to know Rowling’s mind, mate.” He took a seat across from Merlin, tapping his fingers against the desk. “I don’t think it’s suicide, if it’s any consolation.”

“Thanks,” Merlin muttered. “Nothing adds up. Especially Kilgarrah telling Lance to withhold evidence.”

“Kilgarrah told Lance to withhold evidence?” Leon squawked, shocked.

“Lance noticed that Smythe was right handed and the fissures were too clean cut to be done by Smythe.”

“Wolff, too, I presume?”

“I’m assuming so. Lance hasn’t said anything yet,”

“Why didn’t you report Kilgarrah?” Leon asked, eyes darting to the letter. Maybe Merlin had. There might be a full investigation underway. That would explain why Rowling was being more of a dick than usual.

“Who wants to catch a child killer’s killer?” So Merlin hadn’t reported Kilgarrah. Suddenly, Merlin looked wrecked, like he was only just holding on. “He— he suggested I bring back Arthur,”

Leon was silent, considering the pro et contra of having Arthur back on the team. On the one hand, Arthur had caught every criminal they’d looked into. He was a brilliant detective and if this was homicide, Arthur would confirm it within seconds. It may only take him days to find the killer. On the other, Arthur was retired. He’d suffered PTSD after taking a bullet and for Merlin to bring Arthur back it would go against his word, although, Leon suspected that there was a clause that would allow Arthur to return only in the direst of situations. Arthur may have retired into dentistry, but this was where his heart (and head) was.

“What are you going to do?” Leon asked finally.

“What would you do?” Merlin mused. “I have Rowling on one side telling me this is definitely a suicide pact, I have Kilgarrah on the other going against everything to prove God knows what, I have this itch in my head telling me it’s murder but I don’t want to solve these cases because they’ve killed innocent kids. Tell me what I should do.”

“If I had the resources that you do, I’d definitely use them. I’m not saying bring him back, but there’s this thing called a phone. He doesn’t work Wednesday afternoons, all it would take is one quick phone call to ask his opinion.” Which would ultimately lead to Arthur returning, both Merlin and Leon knew that. Dangling the smallest piece of information in Arthur’s face would bring him running back to join the team again.

Leon sighed deeply, watching Merlin carefully. It was no secret that Merlin was not over Arthur. Leon was sure there had to have been casual flings that were doomed to never make it past a quick tumble into the sheets, but Merlin was rather closed off when it came to his love life. He hated to think of Merlin constantly going home to an empty house.

“I can’t call him,” Merlin trilled, a devastated expression on his face. It pulled on Leon’s heart strings.

“I could?” Leon suggested, aiming for casual but coming off as eager. Leon saw Arthur every once in awhile, unlike Merlin, because Arthur was his dentist. He probably shouldn’t have sounded so happy to call.

“No. No, it’s okay, we’ll get through this together.” Merlin wiped at his left eye with the back of his hand and began to type away at his computer. “Is that all you needed? Are you coming out Friday?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Merlin didn’t look at Leon as he left, but as Leon turned around to close the door, he swore he saw a broken man.

 ***

 Merlin backed into his garage slowly, hoping he didn’t hit those ladders that never wanted to behave — even Percivale couldn’t get them to fold; that was saying something — and send paint tins raining down on his car, again.

If he was having a bad day, it always seemed to happen and he’d have to fork out a fortune to get lime green paint (that had never been used, why did he even have green paint?) from his back windscreen.

He cut the engine and allowed himself to just sit in the silence for a moment, pretending he had something to return to. Sighing, he pressed the button on his keyring to close the garage door, watching it slowly fold back down to meet the ground with a small thud.

He opened the car door, almost forgetting to unbuckle his seat belt, making sure to pick up the envelope from the passenger seat, and stepped out, locking the car with a click. He ambled past the boxes full of junk that should have been sent to the tip years ago, past the tools that had never been used and had been perched dangerously on a spare piece of laminate flooring, past the broken ladder and its evil paint, past the brackets that hung winter coats above the barbeque that Merlin had bought one year when Hunith visited, but hadn’t been used since, and almost tripped on the step up to the door that he always left open. It led to a small entryway with benches where shoes, coats and umbrellas were stored and he always made sure to keep a towel or two in there, just in case.

When Hunith visited and brought Idirsholas — her border collie — things got messy and he’d rather not have dirty paw prints past the back porch, where everything could be cleaned with a mop and water.

Merlin had somehow thought it was a good idea to install a biscuit cream carpet in the foyer and on the stairs, so he hated when Idirsholas ran through with mud-caked paws and he had to spend the next week scrubbing at the stains with Vanish and a decrepit vax machine. The rest of the house was either laminate flooring or linoleum, which Hunith and Gaius often told him he should’ve got in the foyer.  
The cream suited the wallpaper though; laminate would’ve clashed.

Merlin toed off his shoes at the entryway door, making his way across the foyer, past the stairs and into the living room, where he threw the envelope onto the coffee table and collapsed onto the largest settee in the room.

He closed his eyes for a moment but something deep within wouldn’t allow sleep to come and he lay there for a moment, staring at the yellow envelope on the coffee table, trying to figure out its content without opening it.

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he reached out to grab it. He ripped open the top and pulled out several sheets of paper:

_DCI Merlin Emrys,_  
 _Your request to bring in an external specialist as a temporary member of the team has been approved._

What? Merlin hadn’t put any request for an external specialist. Confused, he continued to read.

_DCI Merlin Emrys,_  
 _Your request to bring in an external specialist as a temporary member of the team has been approved. You may keep the external source on your team until you see fit to dismiss them and they will receive temporary payroll until you do so._  
 _It is not necessary for your specialist to complete the attached forms, as their details are already in our database, although a signature is required on the forms before filing._

Merlin turned over the page, scanning the back for any more information other than Deputy Chief Constable Nimue Dawns’ signature (Deputy Chief Constable Nimue Dawns? Jesus Christ! Merlin nearly exclaimed aloud. The only time he’d ever received a letter from this high up was congratulating him on becoming DCI, and even then it seemed like it had been one of many with his name copy and pasted in and a rubber stamp signature). He took the forms and began to skim read, hoping to find out who he’d brought in.  
 _Doctor Arthur Pendry._  
“What the fuck?” He hissed, clutching the paper tightly. He’d not made a request to bring in a specialist. He’d certainly not made a request to bring Arthur back. So, in his name, who had?

It was a criminal offence to impersonate a police officer and even more so to imitate a superior officer.

_Your request to bring in an external specialist as a temporary member of the team has been approved._

Well, fuck.

 ***

 “What’s this?” Merlin chucked the forms and letter onto Kilgarrah’s desk the next morning as he sat reading the morning paper. He folded his arms as Kilgarrah raised a disregarding eyebrow and turned back to reading about the latest celebrity scandal. “Put down that paper. As a superior officer, I am ordering you to read this and explain,” Merlin never pulled rank, never made anybody call him ‘sir’, never asked to be treated like a superior, but right now, he dashed that way of thinking and just thought of anger and betrayal.

“I’m supposing even you know how to read, young master Merlin,” Kilgarrah commented, folding the paper and placing it next to a stack of books that appeared older than time itself. He picked up the envelope and opened it hastily, although continued to give Merlin a look that hinted to this being a waste of time.

“Your request to bring in an external specialist...” he began aloud then read under his breath, reading quickly and turning the page, eyes widening when he saw Nimue Dawns’ name and signature. He put aside the letter and started reading the forms, visibly freezing when he got to Arthur’s name.

“Well?” Merlin demanded.

“I’ve nothing to do with this, Merlin,” Kilgarrah promised, sincerity in his eyes, although the tension in his jaw revealed he knew something.

“Come off it, Kilgarrah. You mention something about bringing Arthur back and then little over two weeks later head office sends me this?”  
“Merlin, I assure you that I have had no hand in this request. You made it very clear that you did not want Arthur returning, I would not tempt fate by doing this,” Tempt fate? How was this tempting fate? Merlin thought. Oh, he meant risk losing his job.  
Merlin watched him carefully, watching for signs of a man about to crack and reveal everything, but when that moment never came, Merlin sighed in defeat. If it wasn’t Kilgarrah, who could it have been? It couldn’t have been Leon. Gawaine definitely wouldn’t. Who else had he spoken to? Who else could be a faux-Merlin without being caught?

“Is this fate’s way of telling me that Arthur is coming back?”

“Fate? No. Destiny? Well, perhaps,” Kilgarrah cogitated. He leaned back in his seat, tapping his fingers against his own thigh. “I remember when you and Arthur were thick as thieves. Like two sides of the same coin. Perhaps there is a higher force than we trying to unite the two of you,”  
“Oh, don’t tell me you believe in that spiritual ‘he is your destiny’ crap,”

“That spiritual ‘he is your destiny’ crap has never proved wrong before, young master Merlin. I’m merely stating how strange it is that we spoke of Arthur’s potential return and a short time later, the head office approved a possibly fictitious application to return him to the team.” Kilgarrah stood, dwarfing Merlin as he did so, and hobbled to the front of his desk to stand beside Merlin. “It is possible that a friend thought they were doing you a favour and we’re over thinking the entire situation. Besides, there’s nothing there that says you have to bring Arthur back. It’s just approved in case you ever do want to bring Arthur back, am I right?”

 ***

 Lance, two members of his team, Gaius, Merlin, Percivale and Gawaine sat within the forensic medical examiner’s office, crammed around Lance’s desk, trying to piece together what they already knew from looking at the bodies; a fat load of nothing.

They were picking out the same thing, every time, trying to word it in a different way to look like work had actually been done. But nothing.  
“The strokes are the same,” Gawaine said boredly from his hunched over, folded-arms-on-table head-on-arms position. That was the only point they had so far. The fact that, if there was a killer, he used the same angle, the same broad lines, the same everything, although nobody could tell what hand was used, how the person was standing, where they were standing. Nothing. How could a crime — not that Merlin considered this a crime, more like vigilante justice — be committed so perfectly that no evidence could be found?

It was impossible.

Nobody could pull off the perfect crime. This wasn’t the TV shows where anything could happen; this was life, this was reality.  
It was completely impossible for there to be no evidence.

“What I want to know,” Percivale yawned. “Is how a man could carve into his own chest without screaming out in pain and alerting his lodger? How did Green sleep through that?”  
“You don’t know what the body can endure when put to the test,” Gaius replied a little darkly. The room grew quiet again and an awkward feeling became to penetrate the space. Lance scribbled on a piece of paper; Gawaine kissed his teeth; Percivale was flicking his own thigh with his middle finger; the two medical examiners looked as though the souls had been sucked from them; Merlin felt himself falling to sleep and Gaius took it upon himself to make everybody jump by clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “Right then, if that’s all, I best be off, things to do, people to see, you know how it is.”

“Actually, Gaius, could I see you for a minute?” Merlin found himself asking. “You lot are dismissed,”

“Yes, Sir!” The tall blonde with green eyes smiled. She looked as if she was torn between saluting him (military background, Merlin pondered) and ravishing him on the table (definitely attraction to anybody who was superior to her. Could be to do with military background). The rest of the group filed out slowly, leaving Gaius and Merlin alone, although Gawaine, Lance and Percivale stood just outside the door, which hadn’t been shut, which would have meant they could overhear everything.

Tiredly, Merlin trudged over to the door and pulled it shut. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded his friends overhearing, but this was different.  
“Are you alright, my lad?”

“No, I’m really not.” He could feel himself coming undone before Gaius’ eyes but stiffened his upper lip. He’d save the waterworks for outside of the work place. As if Gaius knew, he embraced Merlin in a fatherly hug, uttering soothing words that Hunith would be proud of.  
“Ey, what’s a matter, lad? What’s happened?” Gaius rubbed Merlin’s arm and hushed him like his mother used to when he’d scraped his knee on the back garden, or when Adam Harding broke his heart in year eleven. “Take a seat, my boy, go on,”

“I suppose Kilgarrah has already told you his suggestion? About the case?”

Gaius sighed, his shoulders physically drooping like the weight of the world had been thrown upon his shoulders.

“I’m aware of Kilgarrah’s decision, yes, although I told him to keep quiet and leave it out from now on. He gave me his word, scouts honour and all, that he would,” Gaius scanned Merlin’s face. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I got a letter from above— you know, HQ, not Jesus Christ. Nimue Dawns, Deputy Chief Constable.” Gaius gave the famous brow quirk that he used to force information out of anybody. A terrorist would yield to that eyebrow. “I haven’t done anything! But, Dawns wrote to me saying my application to bring Arthur back had been approved.”

“You sent an application to the Chief Constable?” Gaius gawped. Nobody wrote directly to the Chief Constable. Nobody got a direct reply from headquarters. It was miles away, but those sort of people didn’t rub elbows with mere inspectors. The message was relayed from person to person (not just any person of the team, of course, the appropriate people) until it found the person it was looking for. Gaius could tell from Merlin’s face that he hadn’t sent that request. “Kilgarrah Drake, I am going to skin you alive,” He muttered angrily. He continued to stroke Merlin’s arm soothingly, like a father consoling a heartbroken child.

“I don’t know what to do, Gaius.”

“I cannot tell you, my boy. I cannot say whether you should or should not; I know as well as anybody that if the heart of Merlin Emrys wants something, it shall get it. I do, however, think bringing Arthur back would be a foolish decision if you wish to carry on as you are.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin sniffed, feeling like he was six years old again and Gaius had just caught him with a hand in the biscuit jar after telling Merlin ‘no’. Gaius’ eyebrow made a return.

“If Arthur was to return, you and he would slip back to your old ways, there’s no doubting it, no matter how much you resisted at first.”

“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t bring Arthur back?”

“The heart of Merlin Emrys is a powerful thing,” Gaius stated. “When it wants something, it shall get it, damn the consequences. Eventually, you won’t have any choice in the matter and you will gravitate back towards him, even you must know that. Now, come on, if we’re quick we can get across town before lunch and your milkshake will be free.”

The famous heartbreak milkshake that was reserved for the worst kind of heartbreaks; the last time Merlin had needed one was the day Arthur left.

“Gaius, you don’t have to.”

“Nonsense. Now hurry up, don’t dawdle, if I have to pay £4.90 because you decide to start an argument about whether we’re going or not—”

 ***

 As Merlin tapped away on his laptop, putting together a presentation of evidence from another case they were being asked to look at to present to the team, his private phone rang annoyingly. He ignored it, wanting to work on the presentation, apparently it was very important that this was done before nine am the next day, rather than talking to Alf from QuickSavers or whatever else someone was selling.

He allowed it to keep ringing, saying that once he was done, he would call them back and fake being asleep in the bath or something. That was a Merlin thing to do; it was believable.

It rang again just as Merlin was saving the presentation and with gritted teeth, he answered, but the line was dead.  
He pressed the call button to access the number but it was Unknown; it was probably PPI cold callers.

Nothing important.

 ***

Three Tuesdays later, Lance, Gawaine, Percivale and Merlin sat in their usual booth, ordered their usual drink, began with their usual small talk and Percivale played with the salt shaker lid as he usually would. It was a routine they’d somehow fallen into a long time ago.

It started with asking how everybody was when the barista put their coffee at the edge of the table, shooting either Gawaine or Percivale a flirtatious smile, then it merged into how their extended family was, Gawaine always asked how Lance’s bird was doing and then that transitioned into talking about cases in detail, although quietly so that the four of them were the only ones to hear.

Occasionally, they were joined by Leon when he was over from North Block, and sometimes Freya came if they asked her at the right time. Mordred, the crime scene photographer, had joined them once. He was a sound lad, but too much of him caused headaches that painkillers couldn’t shift.

Gawaine liked him so everyone made sure to include him in the Friday night gathering.

“What was that with Gaius yesterday?” Lance tapped Merlin’s foot with his own underneath the table, smiling reassuringly. “Is everything okay?”  
If Merlin was to be being honest, nothing was okay. His conscious thoughts were haunted by a man that he couldn’t have, his subconscious mind was even worse. His entire being seemed to be crying out for Arthur Pendry.

Every morning, he came downstairs half-expecting to see Arthur leaning against the breakfast bar, complaining that all they had in was this shitty cheap muesli (which Arthur had been responsible for buying in the first place). Every morning, he thought Arthur might climb into the passenger seat of his car and put his hand on Merlin’s thigh. Then, they would drive to work together, as they had done when Arthur’s car had been stolen and then found wrapped around a tree just outside the park.

In the evenings, he wanted Arthur to be sat across from him after they’d showered (together), attempted to cook (together), burnt dinner, argued on whose fault it had been and ordered Indian from Raaj Rani (together). He wanted Arthur to tip his head back as he laughed huskily at something Merlin said, exposing a throat that Merlin liked to buss his way down when they were laid together in bed while watching reruns of Moirai, and dipping his naan bread into his mango chutney.

Memories reliving themselves. Constantly running through his mind, forcing him to think of Arthur, forcing him to remember.

“Yeah, I’m just a little tired, long days and all,” He chose to say. “All this searching for minor details that might not even exist. Checking and rechecking post mortem results; I can’t be the only one feeling slightly strung out.”

“I haven’t been this tired since the May-Pachis case,” Gawaine commented, rubbing his eyes. “I’m eighty percent sure I’ve developed a caffeine addiction.” He shook his mug before taking a swig and downing the thick black liquid.  
“I think we got one of those a long time ago,” Percivale shrugged, tapping his fingers on the table as if he was playing the drums. It was a habit he’d picked up after joining the police force. Since then, he’d drove everybody crazy with his inability to sit still during silences of any kind. Silence felt unnatural to him.

There was a murmur of agreement around the table, which lead straight back into small talk — “Hey, I heard on the radio they’re turning Oldman’s into a clothes shop.” “What?” “Really?” “Yeah, like we need many more of those,” — to avoid talking about personal issues. It was something they did. After years of being in the job, they learned to keep themselves to themselves as much as they could.

“Drink up, lads,” Gawaine tapped the table. “As much as I’d love to sit here and chat, some of us have work to do.”

 ***

 As he typed up a short presentation on the histories of the two victims, Merlin was acutely aware that something was wrong. The air felt electric, just as it does before a storm, and he had a coiling feeling in his stomach, a warning that something was not okay.

It made him feel uncomfortable; it made him feel like a spring coiled too tight. He was nervous, wound up and mind going crazy with possibilities, and that’s why he jumped, goosebumps flaring on his arms, when his phone rang.

“Emrys.”

“Merlin, I―” Leon said, gravely. Merlin stood, pushing his chair towards the window, running towards the door and yanking it open. He had to go, now. The last time he’d heard that tone from Leon was when Will had been shot during an armed robbery at a petrol station.

“What is it? Is it Arthur? Is it Mum? What’s happened?” He panicked as he headed straight for the lift, forgetting to close the door — damn the door, Gawaine could do whatever he liked ― and tripping over his own feet.

“I made a deal with Rowling to tell you, I thought you’d appreciate it more,”

“Leon, just _get to it_ ,” Merlin snapped, pressing the button to the lift.

“We received a call this morning from a cleaner saying they found the house owner dead when she let herself in,” Leon paused. Was he trying to give Merlin a heart attack? Leon took a deep breath. “It’s Arthur’s father, Merlin, he’s dead,”

“Richard’s dead? Have you told Arthur? Have you called Morgana?”

“Not Richard, Merlin. Uther,” Merlin froze. He hadn’t heard that name in years. It was a name nobody uttered. Merlin and Arthur had only spoken of him once. Merlin and Morgana had talked about him in private several times. Gwen mentioned Uther’s name at the beginning, after Arthur left. But nobody else dared to say that name. “But―Merlin, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. The lift opened and Merlin jumped in, ignoring the wide eyed work experience girl trembling in the corner. He pressed the button for the 1st floor and stood against the rails, tapping his foot, willing time to hurry up. Uther was dead. He’d have to let Arthur know. And Morgana. It would be no skin of their nose, they had Richard and Karen, their foster parents, but still― Merlin would have to tell him.

“Rowling’s asking you get down here, asap, forget about pulling in a team, he’s sending Lorraine. You’re really not going to believe this,”  
“Believe what, Leon? Just spit it out, already!” He barked, his voice cracking. The girl flinched, running out of the lift as soon as it opened.  
“He’s just like Smythe and Wolff,” Leon sighed, almost as if he hadn’t come to terms with it himself. Merlin’s chest constricted; he never thought he’d meet his ex-fiancé’s father this way. He stormed out of the building, ignoring the calls of _Sir! Sir! Emrys!_ from the receptionists and whoever else decided they needed to get in his way. He listened to Leon’s background information, the who found him, the when, weaving in and out of pedestrians who just weren’t moving fast enough.

He ran to his car, swiping his ID badge to get access to the car park, yanked open his door and practically threw himself in. Leon rattled off an address, which Merlin put into his SatNav, before hanging up, using the excuse of having to locate the rest of the team.

Slowly, Merlin’s hand dropped from his ear, and he let out a long-built up sob.

 ***

 Uther’s house was in the Northern side of town, towards the park where Arthur’s car had been found all those years ago, and close to the recycling centre, although it was part of the overlap with Deepsick, the next village over. When Merlin cut the engine, Leon was stood by the driveway, in the middle of a van and Rowling’s car; his arms were folded on his chest and he kicked at a stray rock, eyes cast downwards.

His red hair seemed duller than usual, like it did whenever he was under a lot of stress. Merlin supposed his estranged uncle dying could be the route, but Merlin wasn’t stupid; Uther dying meant involving Arthur.  
They both knew it.

It had screamed like a siren in his mind since Leon had hung up, and it looked like it was settling heavily on Leon’s shoulders.

Merlin clambered out, barely remembering to lock his door behind him, and met Leon halfway up the drive.

“Are you alright?” Leon asked. Merlin mustered up a halfhearted reply and nodded, making sure to keep staring at the house. If he looked at Leon, his weaknesses might show. Leon sighed and they started walking towards the house. “Alright, you already know the backstory. Cleaner’s a live in, says she came back from visiting her mother in Peru expecting Mr Pendry to pick her up from the bus station. When he didn’t show, she got a taxi and let herself in with her key, put her stuff in her room, thinking he’d gone out, went to make herself a drink and found him on the kitchen floor.”

“Have you seen him yet?” Merlin paused in front of the house.

“Yeah,” Leon frowned. “I had to see if it was really him. He’s been there a few days, at least two. Rowling asked me to give you this,” He passed Merlin a mask for his face and grimaced. It was bad, then. He put it on briskly and took a pair of gloves from Leon, who was mimicking Merlin’s actions.

With a nod, Merlin entered the house and was hit by the pervasive stench of rotting meat as he passed into the dining room, following Leon. Instinctively, he put his hand up to his mouth, hoping to block the smell. The dining room was large and spacious, painted several shades of brown that reminded Merlin of coffee, cream and tea, and it opened up into the kitchen. And that’s when Merlin saw him.

He was hunched in on himself, almost curled into a ball, his skin blue, purple and green. His eyes had sunk into his skull and his body was bloating, swelling grotesquely. Uther’s skin was blistering, gas in the muscles trying to escape, and Merlin guessed that he’d been dead for at least three days.

Lance would know when he arrived.

A couple of flies skittered around, not quite daring to touch the man yet, although they were edging closer every time.  
Merlin circled Uther’s pathetic form, his stomach lurching at the smell.  
His face had been cut open and sown into a frown, like Wolff and Smythe, but this time the thread was bright red, standing out against blue and green flesh. _I’m Sorry_ was carved into his back and the knife, a boning knife with a yellow plastic end, lay next to Uther’s right hand, as if it had been dropped.

There was no way Uther Pendry had killed himself like this. It’s physically impossible. There’s no way Uther killed himself; even the killer must have known that, Merlin thought, getting onto his knees to get a closer look. Unless he’s screwing with us. He knows we’re not going to find a single print of his, just Uther’s and he’s fucking with us.

“What do you think?” Leon prompted.

“I think,” Merlin sighed, closing his eyes. “I think I need a dentist appointment.”

 ***

 Lance confirmed Merlin’s thoughts. Lance and Freya had thought that Uther had been dead for about three and a half days.

Three and a half days. Merlin choked back a laugh. He should have been left to rot until he was nothing but bone, Merlin thought. He’d never met Uther Pendry, but he hated him. Hated him with every fibre of his being.  
Uther was a disgusting man.

When Ygraine died of pneumonia, shortly after giving birth to Morgana, and when Arthur was two (and a half, Merlin’s brain added, Arthur had been two and a half, he’d seen the pictures), Uther had appeared to be the perfect dad.

As a single father, Uther was heralded a hero by the other parents and pitied by the old women in the area, who, with wide smiles, gave Arthur a pound every time he passed their house. Morgana was always too young, but on her birthday’s, she got the better presents - and knitted jumpers. Arthur had sounded particularly wounded that Morgana got those and he hadn’t.

When Morgana was three, she started nursery in the same school that Arthur had gone to when he lived in Louth, which was by the side of the sea. She met a friend called Carly, who was as dark haired as herself, with the same blue eyes, and they used to wear the same clothes every day, and make sure to wear their hair the same so that people would mistake them for sisters, or, even better, twins.

During the summer holidays, Arthur, Morgana and Uther used to go to the south of France to visit Agravaine, Ygraine’s elder brother, and then for two days, they would go to Disneyland, in Paris. Then they would visit Tristan, Ygraine’s younger brother, and his wife in Paris. Usually, they stayed in an apartment that was ten minutes away from the Eiffel Tower and Morgana’s favourite chocolate shop.

Merlin remembered Arthur smiling for a moment before his face shut off again as a sob racked his entire body.

One year, when she was five, Morgana begged and begged and begged for Carly to come with them.

“Please, daddy, we’ll be good, I promise! I swear!”

At first, Uther said no, it wouldn’t be fair to Arthur, who never asked to bring a friend, but eventually, after several conversations with Carly’s mothers, Uther let her come, on the condition that they did everything he told them.  
Merlin remembered that Arthur had shuddered at that point when he'd told him the story for the first time, swallowing a sob and turning his face to bury it in Merlin’s neck. Merlin had allowed Arthur to cry, rubbing his arms soothingly. They were twenty then, so young and yet so, so old. Even then Merlin had known Arthur was the one, but he hadn’t realised that under six years later, he’d be left... alone.

Merlin remembered Arthur mumbling into his neck, it could have been part of his tale or it could have been a declaration of love. Merlin wasn’t sure.

Carly and Morgana had been perfect at Agravaine’s house, the perfect little girls, and even Uther was beginning to confuse them. It was the clothes, apparently.

They took a coach up to Disney Land, and stayed in one of the suites for a night, and Arthur had met Peter Pan and Captain Hook - his favourite. Morgana practically collapsed every time she’d seen a Princess.

He remembered Arthur wiping his eyes, a distant look in his eyes as if he was reliving the moments, reliving the happiness, but it changed when he told how Carly went missing. She’d only gone to find Aurora, her favourite Princess, and was only gone for, Arthur had said, twelve minutes.  
But Uther had gone mad. He sought for her frantically and when he found her, he grounded her. She wasn’t allowed on any rides, she wasn’t allowed to meet any of her favourite Princesses, she wasn’t allowed any sweets, and she had to go to bed early. Even the next day, Uther wouldn’t let her do anything.

Arthur had gone pale, Merlin remembered. It hurt his heart to remember.

Uther had slapped Carly thrice when she’d tried to go to the toilet the next day when they were waiting for Tristan to pick them up, and Carly was quiet the whole way to Tristan’s house, even when Morgana tried to get her to do pat-a-cake.  
Tristan dropped them at the apartment, saying he’d be back later, and the four of them made themselves comfortable, although when Tristan came back, to take them ice skating, Uther didn’t allow Carly to go, no matter how much Carly and Morgana cried, or how Arthur told Uther he was being ridiculous. Even Tristan couldn’t change his mind.

Arthur left, consoling Morgana who made Arthur promise they wouldn’t eat all their sweets so that Carly would have more when they got back; but that was the last time they saw her. When they returned, the police were surrounding the house, Uther had been arrested and a body bag, the size of a five year old girl, was being hauled out of the house.

Tristan wouldn’t allow them out of the car, and his wife was crying; none of them knew what had happened.

In court, everything came out. It all came out that Uther Pendry was a disgusting man and that he should be left to rot in hell. He was only sentenced to eighteen years, and was released after twelve, Arthur had heard.

Morgana had been sick, apparently, when she found out. She’d been too young to really understand what was happening back then. Even Arthur had been too young. He’d been told Carly had fallen and that Uther was bad because he’d let it happen.  
But when he was thirteen, he’d come across the news reports online. _Rape. Murder. Paedophilia_. He locked himself in his room for a week, only letting Morgana come in to bring food.

He’d completely broken down after saying that, unable to continue. Merlin didn’t want him to continue. He’d heard enough. His blood boiled, and yet it ran cold. Boiled because Merlin hated child killers. Ran cold because Arthur. Arthur’s father. It brought bile to his throat every time he thought about that moment, every time he thought of Uther.

Merlin sighed in frustration, rolling over as he tried to sleep. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to sleep for two days now. It just evaded him.  
He sat up, looking at his clock. It was two forty five in the morning, and he guessed that everybody he knew would be asleep, but he needed to talk. He needed to tell.

Carefully, he got his phone from the bedside table and pressed number four on his speed dial, hoping she wouldn’t be too angry if he woke her. Or interrupted whatever she was doing at nearly three am. He was sure she wouldn’t be working tonight.

“Merlin, do you have any idea what time it is?” Morgana growled, sounding like she wanted to claw his eyes out. “If your plans have changed, again, and we have to reschedule, it could have waited until the morning!”

“Your dad’s dead,” Merlin blurted, covering his mouth as soon as it came out. He wanted to slap himself. That wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go.

“Richard?” Morgana stuttered.

“No,” Merlin shook his head. “Uther. He’s been murdered,”

“Good, I hope he rots in hell for all he did. Wait, did you say murdered?” She seemed taken aback.

“Brutally. Rowling, you remember him, seems to think it’s all one big suicide pact, but there’s no way. Uther, and two others, have been killed in the same way,” Merlin heard Morgana shift, probably getting out of bed, and he thought he heard her walking into the kitchen. Her kitchen door creaked whenever it opened.

“How bad?”

“Bad. I don’t know whose dick Rowling’s sucked to not get it in the papers, but it’s...” Merlin trailed. “I need Arthur’s help.”

Morgana gasped, and time seemed to stand still for a moment. She knew about the clause. She knew Merlin could bring him back if he needed him, but he knew that Morgana was hoping he never would. For a case, anyway.  
Merlin had heard that Morgana was waiting for him to resign or take early retirement to be with Arthur. He’d thought about it. He’d thought about it a lot, but Arthur had told him no when he’d suggested it all those years ago.

“Do you want me to tell him? I’ll do it nicely, I’ll make Gwen make his favourite,”

“No, no, I need to do it,” He heard the sound of the coffee machine whirring into life. “Don’t tell him. And don’t tell him I’m coming,”

“You’re— When?”

“Tomorrow,” he checked the clock, the faint lines of red blurring slightly in the dark. “Well, today.” He rubbed his face with his free hand, wondering how Arthur would react. Would he throw him out? Would he tell him to get fucked?

Merlin didn’t know what he’d do if Arthur refused him.

 ***

 Beesdale Dentistry was a nice, quaint, little place just off of the Beesdale Market on New Church Grove, sandwiched in between a hairdressers and a closed down law firm that had been trying to sell the building for years. The dental practice was private, and was part of a chain of medical centres that Arthur’s foster father, Richard Forster, owned, although Richard had only bought it as convenience. It looked better for him if his son’s dental practice was part of the Forster Medical Group.

Merlin liked the look of it; it was old brick with modern windows and doors put in, but it hadn’t been done in poor taste. It had a small garden with a bench on it, though the bench took up the entire wall, tightly squeezed in with no room for anything either side, with a few flowers that looked like they were well kept.  
When Merlin opened the door, he was immediately drawn to the colour combination. Red, white and gold. Arthur’s favourite colours. Merlin walked down a short corridor, which opened up to a large reception area, with laminated flooring, and a rug down one side. On the south of the room was the receptionist who hadn’t even batted an eyelid to a stranger walking in.

Somebody had painted a large dragon on the wall opposite to the entrance, which had become the children’s side, where toys were lined neatly, too straight to have been played with, but enough to give the illusion that children had played there.  
All down the side with the entrance were leather seats, and the window bay had been transformed to make a bench for people to sit on. The door to the dentists’ rooms was beside the Receptionists booth and it had a couple of reminders blue tacked to it.  
An elderly couple were sat in the comfiest looking sofa, and a pink haired woman with a baby stood reading a poster about bad breath and its causes.

Sighing, Merlin trudged towards the receptionist, feigning toothache.

“Hi, Mordred Edwards, I’ve got an appointment at quarter past,” he grinned then winced. The receptionist gave him the once over, liking what she saw, then began to type in his name.

“Alright, take a seat, Mr Edwards,” she smiled, winking at him.

Merlin chose to sit as far away as possible, and out of her line of sight.

Mordred had no idea he’d been signed up to six months free treatment at Beesdale Dentistry because of Leon. Merlin had been adamant that Arthur couldn’t know he was coming. It was cruel, he knew, but he had to keep the element of surprise.  
If Arthur knew Merlin was coming, he would have known Merlin was coming for a reason. It didn’t take a Holmes brother to work out what the reason was and so he would have had time to think about what he was going to say.

It was an unfair tactic, Merlin knew. Leon had told him enough times on the way.

“Laura Weaver,” the receptionist called. “Go through to room 3, Alan will see you now.” Securing the pram in place and picking up her bag, Laura Weaver walked across the room, wrenched open the door and pulled it shut. The baby didn’t even flinch at the noise.

Through his eyelashes, he noticed that the receptionist had moved her chair and was watching him. It was bizarre.

He picked at a piece of fluff that appeared on his trouser leg, finding it very interesting.

“Mordred Edwards. Go through to room 1, Arthur will be in in a few minutes,” She stood and ran to the door, holding it open for him. He muttered his thanks, expecting her to just leave it there, but she followed him down the hall, telling him which way to turn and where to go. She opened room 1’s door. “Two minutes. Make yourself comfortable, won’t you?” She winked. Merlin suppressed the need to shudder. She wasn’t bad looking; if he was into women, perhaps he would take her up on her body language’s calls, but he wasn’t into women. So it was just downright weird.

He mumbled a quick thank you before ducking into the room and heading for the chair.

Oh, _Gods_. What was he thinking? He’d not seen Arthur in six years; in two minutes time, they’d be face to face.  
 _Oh, shit_.  
The door handle rattled and Merlin’s heart froze. But nothing happened. Merlin wasn’t facing the door, he was facing a rather colourful fish tank which looked like something out of Finding Nemo, and Merlin wanted to laugh. He would’ve if he hadn’t been so nervous.  
The build up was driving him crazy.

The door opened and Merlin’s entire being forgot how to function.  
“Good afternoon, Mr Edwards, or do you prefer Mordred?” Arthur asked, closing the door behind him. “I’ll not be a minute, I’ll just get,” Arthur said something that Merlin would never understand in his wildest dreams, something Dentistry and teeth related, and Merlin could only squeak in reply as he brushed past.

He watched Arthur’s back as he opened cupboards and drawers, looking for whatever it was that he needed. Or wouldn’t need because there was nothing wrong with Mordred. Or Merlin.

 _Gods, this was a bad idea_.

Satisfied once he’d found it, Arthur made a happy hum and made to turn.

“Alright, so, Mr Edwards, what appears to be the prob— Merlin?”

Merlin gave a lopsided grin and an awkward wave. “Hi, Arthur. Long time no see.”

 

**Chapter Three: Parsley and Wine**

 

Arthur stepped into Merlin’s personal space with three steps and grasped onto Merlin’s shoulders, hardly believing what he was seeing. He threw his arms around Merlin’s neck and embraced him in a choking hug that Merlin could have stayed in for hours.  
When he let go, he pulled back, looking straight into Merlin’s eyes.

“Wow, it’s great to see you,” he confessed, beaming widely. “How’ve you been? You look great.”

“I’ve been, well, you know, as good as the job permits. What about you, Doctor Pendry?” Merlin grinned, any worries of being thrown out by the scruff of his neck evaporating. Arthur moved to sit in the dentist’s seat, although his hands stayed on Merlin, moving to his leg and his lower arm, toward his wrist.

“Busy. Richard thinks I’m Superman, I swear. Gods, I can’t believe it’s you.” He dropped his right hand from Merlin’s thigh and ran it through his hair. It was shorter than it had been when he’d left, but it wasn’t thinning. “So, you’re an Edwards now? Oh, don’t worry, I’ll still treat you, a lot of my patients use their other half’s name and think we’re none the wiser. When did you, y’know?” He took away his left hand and flicked through Mordred’s notes.

“I didn’t. I’m not— I’m not married.” Arthur looked confused and his eyebrow twitched slightly. Merlin always thought Arthur looked like a quizzical puppy when he was confused. Arthur’s eyes fell to Merlin’s left hand, looking for a ring, but there was none.

 _Then what’s with the name?_ Arthur’s expression said. Merlin hesitated. “I didn’t want you to know it was me.”

If Arthur had looked confused before, it was nothing compared to now.

“Why not?” he stuttered, looking wounded. Merlin shook his head.

“I have some news,” he said instead, sitting forward. He wanted to reach out his arm and intertwine his fingers with Arthur’s so he tucked his fingers under his legs, hoping it would stop him making a fool out of himself. “A few days ago, I got called to a crime scene where a cleaner found her boss in his kitchen and,” Merlin let out a breath. “Your dad’s dead, Arthur.”

“Richard? What happened? Who did it?” He looked like he was ready to run and personally castigate the perpetrator. Merlin wanted to smile, mostly because he was still Arthur, and partly because Morgana had jumped to the same conclusion.

“No, Arthur. Uther. Uther’s dead.”

“Do you know who did it?” Arthur asked, then he paused. “You don’t. That’s why you’re here. Isn’t it? You need me.”

Merlin nodded. God, he needed Arthur; but that wasn’t what Arthur meant. Arthur meant the case. He needed Arthur for the case. Arthur sighed, staring at his hands, then glanced up. He looked like a lost little boy and Merlin wanted to say no. Forget about it. The case doesn’t matter. I’ll believe everything Rowling wants me to if it’ll make you happy, Arthur. But the words wouldn’t form.

“How about you swing by later? I’ll make dinner and we’ll talk then. It gives me a few hours to get my head straight,” he smiled, but it wasn’t nearly as wide as before. Merlin’s heart lurched.

“Sure. What time?”

“How’s seven?”

“That’s perfect.” Merlin beamed.

“Alright then,” Arthur smacked at Merlin’s thigh to get him off the chair. “Don’t be late. I know what you’re like.” He smirked. Merlin wanted to freeze time so they could stay like that forever, his hand on the doorknob, about to leave, and Arthur’s eyes half-pleading him to stay. “Go on, off you go, I won’t be able to concentrate with you around, go!”

It was only when Merlin got to the end of the road that he realised that he had no idea where Arthur lived.

 ***

 Merlin spent the afternoon walking around Beesdale Market (he bought a new black, button down shirt and a little Buddha figure that he thought Gawaine would appreciate) and took a walk up to the remains of the old Abbey.

The plaque at the front of the Abbey claimed it was haunted by a Saxon warrior and a Friar. The Saxon was angry and fierce, but, it said, the Friar would chase him away if he ever tried to hurt anyone who visited. On Halloween, the Saxon and the Friar would have a bloody battle where they would both lose their lives, and the Saxon, it said, could be seen running into the woods, where his shallow grave had been found in the 1930’s by archaeologists looking for the water system for the Abbey.  
He bought a sandwich at a little cafe that was just off the Abbey grounds and roamed the woods for a while, coming across a secluded picnic area with a kids climbing frame. The child inside him demanded to come to be appeased, so using the monkey bars, he climbed up to the top and sat on the roof of one of the sections, eating his sandwich up there. Out of his jacket pocket, he pulled out a can of cola, opened it and enjoyed the view while supping on it, losing himself in his thoughts.

Arthur had looked disappointed when he thought Merlin was married. Did that mean he still loved Merlin, too? If he said yes to coming back, would he come back for good? Would he stay with Merlin and they would return to how they were? Merlin wanted that. He wanted them to fall back into the old routine.  
Would Arthur want that? Or would it be business only?

He wouldn’t blame Arthur if it was. He wanted a quiet life; being a dentist and living in Beesdale, three hours away from Merlin, assured that. Throwing Arthur back into work could be triggering enough, let alone throwing Merlin back into the mix.  
His phone vibrating in his pocket slowly drew him back into the world of the living, although he let it ring twice before answering it. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Emrys.”  
“My idiot brother tells me he invited you for dinner but did not disclose his address. Is this true?” Morgana questioned, sounding like she wanted to laugh. Merlin did, instead. “I’ll take that as a yes. Trust him to. You know he didn’t realise he’d forgotten to tell you until he started peeling potatoes?”

“That sounds about right. I was going to call you actually and ask, but I thought you might be working.” It was a lie. He’d completely forgotten.  
“Oh, I am. They pulled me in early under the guise of having another day off. Anyway, enough about me. What happened with Arthur? He invited you to dinner. He never has boys over. He never has people over, except me and Gwen. I don’t even think Richard and Karen have seen the inside of his house.”

“I don’t know. He figured out why I was there after I told him about Uther then asked me to come by for dinner.” Morgana let out a high pitched squawk.

“I knew it. I fucking called it!”

“Knew what? What?” Merlin winced, his ear ringing from her shouting.

“Arthur! He’s into you. Still.” Merlin’s heart stopped. “I have to go. The other receptionist doesn’t know her arse from her elbow and gets me to do all the work. I’ll text you directions, alright?”

“Alright, see you later.” Merlin hung up and stared at his phone. When the text came through with directions, Merlin climbed down from the frame and began the walk back to the marketplace.

 ***

 He called at a little shop near the Ring Road and picked up a bottle of wine, although Merlin knew he shouldn’t have a drink at all. One, because it clouded his judgement and he was likely to do something he may live to regret. Two, he was driving. Three, he was still technically on the job, even if he’d begged Gawaine and Percivale to cover for him.

He followed Morgana’s directions carefully and only managed to get lost twice, having to pull over and ask children playing on the street where such-and-such-road was, and both times, it turned out he’d missed the turning because he was looking on the wrong side of the road.  
Bond Street, which was harder to find than the centre of a labyrinth, seemed to be one of the newer estates in Beesdale, although it seemed like one of the richest, too. All the houses were detached, unlike the other streets which were all terraced and tiny, with box gardens and cars squeezed into parking spaces that didn’t actually exist.

He slowed down as he took a right turn, looking for number forty seven, and had to squint as he passed houses that were every number but the one he wanted.

Number forty seven Bond Street was on the left of the road, fenced off by a metal gate and a brick wall fence. On top of the brick wall were wrought iron balustrades with beautiful, gold painted spearhead shapes that looked like spades from a pack of cards. They were mounted on black spiralled metal that segmented at the bottom into three parts, and it reminded Merlin of metal arrows.

Merlin pulled into the drive and pressed a button on a panel on the wall that let out a loud, incessant buzz.

“‘Lo?” Arthur mumbled, sounding unsure.

“It’s Merlin,” Merlin grinned even though he knew Arthur couldn’t see him. A green light switched on and slowly the gates swung open. He drove up to the house and stopped just before the front door, noticing that Arthur was stood waiting with a happy smile on his face. Merlin cut the engine and climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He held out the wine, awkwardly, and shuffled towards the house.  
It was a small, one storey, Victorian, although it looked relatively new, and Merlin thought it must have cost an arm and a leg.

Arthur took the wine, but didn’t say anything, choosing to give a small shrug. It felt weird to Merlin and he wasn’t sure what to say, really. Arthur must’ve been feeling it, too, because he asked how Merlin had spent his day in an attempt at striking up conversation.

“Oh, I went up to the Abbey, had a walk around. It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s what drew me to it,” Arthur said, holding the front door open for Merlin. Merlin walked into the house and into a hallway that was painted white and had red paintings hung on the walls. “Here, give me your jacket, I’ll hang it up.” Arthur pointed to a coatrack that was tucked into the corner. Merlin shrugged off his coat and handed it to Arthur who carefully put it on the rack.

Silently, Merlin followed Arthur through the hall and into a large dining room with a cream carpet. The walls were an off white, too, and there were red ornaments and lamps to give it colour. The tablecloth was red, and the curtains were red with white flowers. It all seemed really homely and for a moment, Merlin felt oddly jealous.

“Feel free to look round, I’ll put this in the fridge and check on tea.” Arthur shook the bottle of wine then made a hasty exit into a room where the door opened both ways.

Merlin wandered around the dining room, refusing to go any further than what he assumed was the kitchen door because he remembered that Arthur didn’t like people going through his things when he wasn’t there. He looked at the paintings on the wall, which he assumed were Morgana’s, either her own work or her doing, she always claimed Arthur wasn’t cultured enough. They were all different. Some were flowers, there was one of a ballet dancer wearing red shoes, although it was just her legs, with a red tutu, en pointe and Merlin’s favourite was the one next to the window.

It was a painting of a city in reds, blacks and blues with a green, pink and purple sky. It looked like the sunset Merlin had seen when Arthur and Merlin had stayed in Helsinki for their fifth anniversary. He studied it, looking at the brush strokes, and how the colours blended together. Arthur, come on! You have to try mustamakkara! Merlin shook his head. He couldn’t think about that right now.

Merlin wandered into the kitchen where Arthur was pouring water into a pan and stirring whatever was inside.  
“You still like parsley sauce, right?” Arthur asked without turning around. It was slightly spooky.  
“God, I’ve not had that in ages,” Merlin traipsed across the kitchen to the stove, standing beside Arthur and inhaling deeply. Arthur was making his favourite. Fish, mashed potatoes and parsley sauce. Arthur was making Merlin’s favourite. Internally, Merlin squealed. Externally, he made a remedial humming noise.

Arthur snickered.

“Take a seat.” He tapped the worktop beside the oven and Merlin hopped on, crossing his legs like he used to before Arthur left. “Try this.” Arthur held out a spoon with a little bit of sauce on, and Merlin sipped at it. It was like heaven.

“Jesus, Arthur, where’d you learn to make that?”

“Karen made me ‘do something useful’ with my, what she called, spare time and she decided I needed to learn how to cook properly. Said I couldn’t just live on frozen meals from their freezer.” Arthur opened the oven with an oven mitt and checked on the fish. It was wrapped in tin foil, which Arthur undid and stuck a knife into the centre. “Right, that’s almost done. Do you want to set the table? Everything is in that drawer under the coffee machine.”

Merlin jumped down and crossed to the drawer, opening it, pulling out two sets of knives and forks and two mats. He walked to the table and set the mats down across from each other remembering to put the knife and fork the left handed way for Arthur (the way he liked to use them).  
Merlin went back to the kitchen and saw that Arthur had poured two glasses of wine, which were set on the side next to the fridge, besides the open bottle.

It felt terribly domestic and Merlin sighed; it was just like it felt before.

***

 Dinner was nice, if a little awkward. The conversation rarely ventured further than commenting on Arthur’s cooking skills or Merlin’s impeccable wine choice. Neither could quite make eye contact and ate rather mechanically, making sure to not make too much noise which would disturb the silence they were sat in.

Merlin played with his food before eating it, watching Arthur from the corner of his eye but glancing back down at the fish and humming appreciably at the flavour whenever Arthur tried to meet his gaze.  
Arthur did the same with his wine glass.

“I didn’t think to do any dessert,” Arthur said, a little deflated and disappointed. He eyed his empty plate dolefully.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, seriously; I’m beat.” Merlin pushed his plate and put his hands on his stomach breathing heavily. He wanted to unbutton his trousers and fall to sleep where he was.

“You? Full? My _God_ , I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Oi, you _prat_!” Merlin exclaimed, sitting up and swatting Arthur’s hand. Arthur snickered huskily, tipping his head back joyfully and revealing his throat. Holy shit, Merlin thought, averting his eyes to look at his own thumbs. Arthur sighed then his expression became serious.

“About what I invited you here for,” He began, shifting uncomfortably. “If I decided to take it, I have a few conditions.”

“Name them, anything you want,” Merlin sat and leaned over the table.

“I choose the team. I’m not doing this with the dregs left over from someone else’s case.” Arthur was pointing to his index finger.

“Done,” Merlin said straight away. Arthur held up his middle finger.

“Two, I need somewhere to stay. I don’t fancy driving six hours every day just to get to work. I’m supposing HQ will put me on payroll until you get rid of me, but, think how much it’ll cost in petrol.”

“You can stay with me,”

“Which leads me onto my next point,” Arthur swirled his wine and downed it. He poured himself another glass. He gestured from himself to Merlin. “We can’t go back to how we were,”

“Okay.” Merlin agreed, although he really wanted to say _I wouldn’t be able to let you go if we did_ , _you wouldn’t be able to just leave again_. Arthur looked thoughtful for a moment, as if trying to remember if there was anything else to say. “Anything else?”

Arthur sipped his wine and looked at Merlin, darkly. He put down his glass and leaned closer to Merlin:

“When we find the guy, I get to shake the bastard’s hand,”

**Author's Note:**

> You don't know how many times I've tried to upload this and it's ended up not working. Not cool.  
> I'd like to thank Kit, Hanan, Jackie, Ana, Courtney and Carolin for not just betaing but putting up with my shit while I screamed about it being awful. You amazing little shits. 
> 
> I'd really, really appreciate feedback - a little comment saying what you thought, where you think it's going etc. It'd be really nice. I'd like to know that people are actually going to read this! 
> 
> If you have any questions about this, or the series, ask me on Tumblr - either sixfarthingsless or fy-nghariad-fy-emrys.


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